


rumbles and flashes of light

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: Longitudinal Cohort [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Sherlock is a good man, They love each other, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 05:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11155110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: John is not particularly fond of thunderstorms.  Sherlock suspects--knows, really--that it’s one of many souvenirs from his time crouching behind walls, seeking cover from bullets and IEDs.





	rumbles and flashes of light

**Author's Note:**

> It's been awhile but here's something small.

Sherlock doesn’t hear it at first, not really. He’s engrossed in the rotted cucumber on the slide under his microscope--fungal filaments, possibly _Aspergillus_ , brilliant--that John pulled out of the crisper with a curse earlier. But something flits on the edge of his mind, a vibration behind his ear, a subtle whiff of ozone through the cracked window, the musty, earthy smell of an incoming storm.

When he hears the first rumble, he barely pays it any mind, eyes just flicking up from the eyepiece to the gently fluttering curtain in the sitting room. The second rumble is longer, not loud, not yet, but his peripheral vision catches a brief flash of light through the open curtains.

The Great Brain quickly dispenses with filamentous fungi and Sherlock’s eyes flash to the bedroom door, open just the barest crack.

A thunderstorm.

They don’t bother Sherlock. In fact, Sherlock has loved thunderstorms for as long as he can remember. He can remember the bright flashes and loud cracks, sharp slices through the constant whir of his brain that brought a strange, acute comfort as a child. A stopgap, something to invade his mind that didn’t require constant analysis. Sherlock remembers the first time he crawled into bed with Mycroft during a storm, not afraid, but content, easily drifting off to sleep on his shoulder without any need for the usual long screeds Mycroft would recite to help him sleep. They didn’t happen often in the stable air of the British Isles, and he cherished every one.

Sherlock can’t help but remember thunderstorms with Mycroft, the muted excitement, one of many fond memories of his big brother that he’d deny if anyone ever asked. Appearances and all that. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as another whiff of the incoming storm flutters through the flat.

John is not particularly fond of thunderstorms. Sherlock suspects--knows, really--that it’s one of many souvenirs from his time crouching behind walls, seeking cover from bullets and IEDs. He discovered it early in their friendship, the first few days, actually, coming out of his room to find John sitting on the sofa in the middle of the night, all the lights turned on, shoulders rigid and eyes trained steadily on the cold fireplace. Sherlock hadn’t said anything, simply switched on the kettle, deposited tea on the coffee table a few minutes later, then picked up his violin while lightning flashed through the sitting room windows. 

They never talked about it. Before he left, even if John didn’t jolt awake with a gasp and a cry, even if he didn’t come down to the sitting room when lightning lit up the the sky, Sherlock would pick up his violin, and play until the clouds rumbled past. While he was away, if Sherlock happened to be awake during a thunderstorm, he always wondered and worried and thought about his John, how he didn’t have any violin music to soothe his nerves and drown out the thunder, to remind him he wasn’t alone.

Mary--Sherlock declined learning her true name--offhandedly mentioned a storm once, when they were all packed into Baker Street reviewing fabric swatches one morning after a particularly violent summer storm. She’d stated John looked tired, out of nowhere, and subtly demeaned him and his not-unexpected aversion to storms in her usual veiled, vicious way, the way that made Sherlock’s chest and eyes burn. John’s cheeks had flushed and he stuttered and cleared his throat without answering, but Sherlock knew. And he’d ached to throw her from the flat and tell John to stay, that it was fine and that he’d take care of him like he had before.

In hindsight, maybe he should have. 

There hasn’t been one in the time since...them. There have been many milestones, many crossed lines in the few months since they drove away the spectre looming over them and returned home. Together. But there hasn’t been a storm.

His eyes briefly dart to his violin case, propped up in his leather chair, but he doesn’t need it now. Now Sherlock can do something else instead, something he knows in his deepest heart he wanted to do that very first time, when he found John perched on the sofa.

Sherlock flicks the light on his microscope off and crosses to the kitchen sink to wash his hands, dressing gown fluttering behind him. He leaves the fluorescent light over the sink on and heads to the bedroom door, pushing it open as gently as he can, knowing it creaks. The low light from the kitchen spreads over the bed; John hasn’t woken, not yet. He’s curled on his side facing the window, his rear end hanging over the invisible line in the center of the bed and onto Sherlock’s side. It’s fine, Sherlock prefers John in his space, almost as much as he likes pushing into John’s.

He gently closes the door, leaving it open just a crack, so the line of light leaves a neat line across the back of John’s silver and gold head. He shrugs off his dressing gown and goes to the window; a flash lights up the sky as he pulls the curtains closed. Sherlock prefers them open, and John has acquiesced, but tonight they should be closed. Hopefully it will help.

John stirs briefly in the bed but doesn’t wake. Sherlock pulls his--actually John’s--worn t-shirt over his head as he crosses back to his side of the bed, tossing it blindly in the direction of the chair where his dressing gown is draped. He prefers his skin to be as bare as possible when he’s in bed with John; it’s not sexual, not always anyway, but anchoring. He can absorb as much of John as possible through every one of his senses, even if John does reach over and swat at him if he starts nibbling at his skin while he sleeps.

The linens on his side of the bed are cool as Sherlock slips under the covers. He scoots over and effectively drapes himself over John’s back, hooking his chin over his shoulder. John’s face is prickly and lovely against his cheek. He smells like cheap shampoo and Sherlock’s expensive body wash, lingering deodorant and the musky warm sweetness of sleep sweat. He stirs again just as Sherlock lays his foot on John’s ankle; he isn’t sure if it’s because his feet are ice-cold (they usually are) or from the rumble of thunder, louder this time.

John wakes just as Sherlock’s hand presses to the center of his chest. He sniffs once, grunts, then turns his head slightly to nuzzle against Sherlock’s cheek. “Mmm, hey love,” his voice is coarse and scratchy with sleep and absolutely lovely. Sherlock has an entire room in his Mind Palace devoted solely to the sweet--and sometimes annoyed--things John says when he drifts into wakefulness. “Finished with that disgusting cucumber?”

“No,” Sherlock tightens his arm and hitches his leg higher, caging John’s short, stocky frame. “I found fungal filaments actually.”

“Disgusting,” John shifts and tries to stretch against Sherlock’s grip. “Christ, you are like one of those clingy things you can win at church--”

Lightning flashes, followed quickly by a crack that shakes the pane of glass in the window as the storm settles directly overhead. John jerks and stiffens in Sherlock’s embrace, his breath catching in his throat. Sherlock is glad, at least, that he woke up _before_ , that the storm couldn’t build in his mind like it did in the sky above London, slowly drifting to settle over his dreams until it finally overwhelmed him and he awoke with a gasp and a cry.

Sherlock presses his cheek against John’s while his breath leaves in a shaky exhale. He tightens his thigh over John’s legs, slips his fingertips up under John’s t-shirt to stroke over the line of hair below his navel. He doesn’t want to talk about it, they never have before, and he doesn’t want to embarrass John more than he probably already is. But he still feels like he should say _something_ , now that they’re like this. Sherlock just doesn’t know what that is.

Lightning flashes again and John’s shoulders tighten even further, his right knocking into Sherlock’s chin. Rain starts pattering against the window, billions of little watery bullets against the glass. Sherlock rubs a gentle circle against John’s chest for a few moments. “Should I get my violin?” He finally settles on. 

John’s breath leaves him in a gush; he reaches back to palm Sherlock’s hip. “No, I’m fine like this.” He relaxes ever so slightly, his right hand moving to cover Sherlock’s left where is rests on his belly. His index finger strokes over the simple silver ring there. Soon John will have one of his own. 

“Ok,” Sherlock mumbles against John’s sweaty neck. Thunder cracks again and John curls in on himself, just slightly. Sherlock presses close, dropping soft kisses against the hard cord of John’s sternocleidomastoid muscle, feeling it shift and contract as John tightens and relaxes by fractions in his arms.

“I hated it,” John says simply after several long moments. His voice sounds thick in his throat.

“I know. I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock knows John is talking about when he left, when he was alone and left empty of everything that had given his life meaning. He also hears an apology, the sadness of wasted time, in what John isn’t saying. _I needed you. I needed you so much, and I didn’t even know it until you were gone._ “It’s alright now.”

“You’re right,” John sniffs hard. “It is, now.”

“Better, if I say so myself.”

“Git,” John chuckles wetly, puffing a long breath out. He pushes his rear back against Sherlock’s belly. “Sodding thunderstorms.” His cheek and neck warm under Sherlock’s mouth as he acknowledges it, out loud, after nearly six years.

This is the most they’ve ever discussed it, the only time either of them has said that word, a word that somehow conveys how heavily John came to depend on Sherlock being with him when light and noise lit up the sky.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock twists their fingers together on John’s belly. “This is not a good time to tell you Mummy is coming up next week to conspire with Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh dear Lord,” John takes a deep breath, down into his abdomen and holds it for a moment. He slowly exhales; Sherlock can feel the air whistling through his trachea as he exhales through his mouth. Breathing exercises. “What happened to signing some papers then a quiet dinner with family and friends?”

“ _And_ Mycroft,” Sherlock supplies as thunder cracks. Mycroft is a category of his own. “And I have no idea.”

“Mmmm,” another deep breath expands John’s back against Sherlock’s chest. “Three weeks and it’ll be over.”

“Yes,” Sherlock presses a kiss to the sensitive skin where John’s neck meets his shoulder. “Finally.”

“Yes, love. _Finally_.” John squeezes Sherlock’s fingers. 

The storm rages on, but slowly the tension in John’s body releases, and he relaxes back into Sherlock and the mattress. His breathing is slower, even, and Sherlock finds it’s soothing nerves he didn’t even realize were on edge. He nuzzles into John’s neck, contented exhaustion settling over him. Being in bed with John always does this, makes him more tired than he was (or thought he was), makes him ready and willing to stop and simply _be_ with John in their bed. He yawns into John’s skin, the tension in his limbs releasing in time with John’s, the delightful sinking feeling of sleep claiming--

*CRACK*

Sherlock jumps behind John, the snap of thunder shaking him out of theta rhythm and back into wakefulness. 

John guffaws into his pillow in front of him. “That one got you, yeah?” He squeezes Sherlock’s hand once more, then shrugs him off and awkwardly flips over to his other side. Sherlock’s arms settle around his back again as John scooches closer and tucks his face into Sherlock’s neck. Usually it’s the other way around, Sherlock clinging to John and tucking his face into every manner of crevice, but this is always nice too. “Thank you, love.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock rumbles, pressing his nose into John’s hair. It’s so much softer than it looks, currently sticking up every which way. “Sleep now, John.”

“Hmmm,” John’s hand finds the small of Sherlock’s back. His fingers are calloused and lovely against his bare skin. Such a good way to absorb all of John. “Yes.” He relaxes further, limbs going limp where they’re pressed against Sherlock.

Outside their fortress, the storm rages through the night.


End file.
